Alice Firman
entertain the notion all this was made for us? In what B.C. was that? And who was the thinker who chewed his nails down to the bloody quick, shunning his fields and his best brown goat to come up with what every four-foot, crawly, leafy thing knows better? What teeth-shattering cold coerced him— rolled up in his nightly rag— to seek such consolation? Surely he knew nothing of us, our smattering of smarts: smart phones, smart alecks, smart asses, smart bombs, and how— thanks to mischief, mayhem, and Michelangelo— we swallowed his line, happy to agree with him. Even the skinny kid, his arm around his girl, walking the back lane in this forsaken town, thinks his pounding heart the drumbeat of this world. Never mind the daisies’ argument with Coke cans and orange peels raging in the ditch, and overhead the crows who recognize human faces—so they say— and remember. %CODE_MORE_INTERVIEWS%